


Idylls of the Woods

by oberon2016



Series: Carol of the Woods [3]
Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26305033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oberon2016/pseuds/oberon2016
Summary: Well, I am back with an addition to the Carol of the Woods series.  Yes, I have been gone for some time and I still have to catch up!  Please note that this is not a part of the my other story (on pause because I just can't angst right now).  Think of this as an interlude... until I return.Stay safe and wear a mask!As I send this out into the universe, let me thank the people who painted that lovely Black Lives Matter mural in the market!
Relationships: Carol Aird/Therese Belivet
Series: Carol of the Woods [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/611404
Comments: 51
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AliceBorealis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceBorealis/gifts).



> Well, I am back with an addition to the Carol of the Woods series. Yes, I have been gone for some time and I still have to catch up! Please note that this is not a part of the my other story (on pause because I just can't angst right now). Think of this as an interlude... until I return.  
> Stay safe and wear a mask!  
> As I send this out into the universe, let me thank the people who painted that lovely Black Lives Matter mural in the market!

One note. Then another.

Sweet, like breath, this song. She leans, listening keenly, her eyes swallowing – what? – for her vellum lies, forgotten, her quill abandoned in the ink. Her birdcatcher sways with the flute, this song, streaming from the hollowed wood, this mixture of earth and air, this sacred alchemy, for here, in a crucible (gentle, gentle light, no devouring flame), this flow, sound song, the wildness in flight, this trilling tune, as playful as a brook.

The light, like liquid, flows over the window and splashes to the floor.

Oh, the house in the wood, such comfort there.

Mark the days long, yet there is joy in the length of the sun’s reach, the yawning heat of summer. Blossom and flower, how the apples bloom forth, the pluck of cherries, a raspberry pucker, sweet and plump, the burst of plum.

The Queen stands, holds the flutter in her heart.

For she gazes at her birdcatcher, forever young, the sway and dip, how the song leads her, this measure. Oh, there have been years – how can this be? Together they have braved famine and plague, their own conflicted and clashing natures, how can they be, here, in the house in the wood, when the world is beset by such troubles and torments, when all seems against them - the rule of law, and social prescription, the holy books, and all the histories of men. Even time, for she rues her own wasted, empty years, yet there is time enough for now…

And the song. A prisoner of measure, the tempo, the beat.

Oh those lips…

With one leap, she pulls her into her grasp, oh catch the joy as it flies, for her birdcatcher is young, young and they will make the world of this house in the wood, the treasures of stroke and nuzzle, the strength of limb and shuddering bliss, for this dance is forever new, forever becoming, oh the thief of time, of lips so soft, the suckle and slip, a tongue to roll, a string of kisses, for this embrace will hold them, the groove of hip fitting hip, the trace, a finger, stroking down, the bolt of eyes, of flashing jade, this canopy of emerald green, to take you in, take you in, the thicket hush, of parted thighs, for this the wood, at home in the world, make the heavens dance, hold, hold, a coming.  


The beauty of this moment, as she arches.

Hunger and greed, such innocent greed, to devour her again, oh, but to let her rest, the full rush of her tremor, that cry of release, her eyes, pinched, then wide, and then a bursting laughter.

Yes, and yes again.

Mischief in those eyes.

She will test you, this grapple, this tease, a playful dance, a sudden glance, deep – a thunder shock. For there is no greater beauty than this.

Mystery, she is all.

Fragile, the width of her wrist, the frailty, a sinew between flesh and bone, yet with a roll, she will straddle you and the world will tumble, her hands, flitting, her mouth, ever seeking, searching the very centre of you, the hidden valley, she will open –

 _Carol_ , she whispers –

Open, and you promise everything, an offer, an entreaty – and she is there, building a rhythm, of blood, flesh, and bone. She holds you at that centre, that curl of her fingers, to coax, to call, for all that rippling joy, to feel that pulse, to draw it deep, a dance that swirls them, no, a burst of flight, hips rising – she brings you to yourself – and beyond.

 _Therese_ , a cry drawn long against a clutching shudder. You close your thighs together, as if to hold her there forever.

Float. The spiraling motes, caught in the beam of light.

Your breath, it eases. The breeze against your dewy brow. And how she bends, so slowly, her smile, a kiss, chaste, on the lips, a tongue caress, stroke down to nipples.

Mischievious, this birdcatcher, the wiggle of fingers, her laughter at the sound of wetness.

_Again?_

Your body opens, this despite the years, and you clench, a blush, a Queen, so shy. Her eyebrows lift, for she feels it, and holds, and sees your sheen of tears.

 _My love_ , you cry.

And for this you will banish shame, you will shatter all prescriptions, and damn all the laws of men. Let there be love in this heart, in this refuge, in this, the small house in the wood.

Let this be.

 _Again_ , you whisper.

Always and forever.


	2. Winter in the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small addition. This takes place after the Evening of the Woods story, after the Inquisition, the jacquerie, and the birdcatcher's injury. And yes, my other story is still in the works. I welcome comments.  
> Note: part of this was inspired by the film Summerland, a very gentle piece of cinema - one of the very few films. television shows that I have been able to watch. I was wondering if anyone else was having problems reading new works, watching new films. I find myself balking at stories and screens at at time when I crave distraction. Covid times.

Cold winds, and cruel, that sweep down from the mountains, heralding a thick blanket of snow, and on the morn, a bristling frost that swathes the skeletal trees, that bends the bough of pine. Hear the groan, how the beams protest their labour! Winterlight, a begrudging greyish-blue that sulks at the window and the air, seeping, sapping, a bone chill that that shrivels the soul. 

Oh, the nights will be long! Would that this season be over!

The birdcatcher paces to the cistern. To the window.

Yet the hearth crackles brightly in the house in the wood. The thatched roof holds true. The Venetian glass - newly set in the windows this very autumn - sparkles, as if cut from diamonds, and there, in the corner, a crystalline dance of colours, tiny rainbow shards. Marjoram strewn on the floor and along the ceiling, the hanging lavender.

The birdcatcher paces. Restless she is, even as she has come from the traps, she has shaken off the snow from the path and run the horse from the stable. Restless, under these brooding clouds that play havoc with her head, that tense band about her temples.

The Queen, at her table, she notes this.

She places aside her sheaf of vellum and draws out her tinctures from her healing box, the salve of camphor. Oh, her birdcatcher will ruffle her feathers in bluff and blunder. What to do with such loving ones, who cast away such care, who think weakness a crime. The Queen knows that she too holds this in herself, this abhorrence of frailty, yet to see her birdcatcher struggle, even after the torment at the King’s Seat… oh what a mirroring that was! For that the birdcatcher would suffer in silence, to make a habit of isolation, to make loneliness a friend - makes the Queen’s heart quail. Oh, to be a stoic, for surely that is her beloved, she who endures. Yet life should be more than mere survival, should it not?

The Queen reaches to pluck a sprig of lavender and crushes it in her hand. Scent, she sprinkles and turns to feign a wince.

Quick, quick, how her birdcatcher comes to her, her own pain she casts aside. How she quells the Queen’s protests, guiding her to the bed, the fluff of pillow, the tuck of pelt, she is a flurry of attention, a furrowed brow.

The Queen, she opens her arms, and says, “Come lie with me, for comfort.”

Curl, this familiar clasp, first one, then the other. The years have been long, this length of embrace, this balance of stubbornness and pride.

The Queen, she opens the vial of camphor and asks, almost shyly, turning.

There, the scar, the arrow’s wound.

With infinite care, the birdcatcher smooths the ointment onto the raised mark, circle, then back, then wider still, longer, the stiff muscles of the back. Shoulders, tense, the crook of neck, and a smile at the Queen’s deep sigh. Care in the touch, to wield the healing stroke, with a soothing balm. What physics we attend, forsooth, for we heal ourselves when we heal each other. Down and back and down again. Curl around, though she is the smaller one, a skin-hunger, no, she will not let her go.

They rest.

The birdcatcher, she feels it, the gentle brush about her temples, smells the sharp camphor. Her eyes flash open to her Queen’s mirthful gaze.

But it is the birdcatcher who laughs. Oh, lightness, she laughs! “You think yourself a sly one,” she needles, for she has seen through this subterfuge, “like the bird who plays the broken wing.”

The Queen recoils in mock chagrin but her birdcatcher holds tightly. Ruffled, she gathers her pride but there is no strength in it. “And I thought I was being clever.”

The birdcatcher nuzzles. “Clever?” Then snorts, barely indignant. Still, it is so peaceful in this embrace.

“What desperate means I must resort, to receive your attentions,” whispers the Queen, her finger tracing her birdcatcher’s brow. “But I did catch you, after all, did I not?”

Another snort from the birdcatcher. “A royal summons to the Tower. Not so clever.”

The Queen leans back, to hold her in her gaze. The room brightens for a moment, as if, above them, the clouds had parted.

“What?” the birdcatcher asks.

Her gaze falls to her beloved’s hands, such capable, caring hands that would weave the net and twist the twine. The Queen looks away, as if in thrall to memory:

“I first saw you then, in your vest of blue woad, plucking the autumn apples in the high boughs, you orchard thief. There, from the high tower… and it took the entire winter to train my golden bird, in secret, for the King’s eyes were everywhere. And what a preposterous plan that was! Impossible, no? But my life was impossible. Do you understand? Impossible. I could feel myself… withering. Longing for a different kind of flight. And you, out there in the wood. It was as if I were in a dream, playing at this idea of you, and then, finally, you were in front of me, in the vestibule, flesh and blood made real. You were all my hopes and terrors. But, there, in front of me, you became yourself, and more than I could possibly imagine. Desire, I understood, but love… you teach me love. With every moment, every day, every breath.”

The birdcatcher swallows. “You never told me this.” And there she sees it, casts back her mind’s eye, for it is the Queen’s hand who begins this turning, she who reaches, above the battle of self-doubt, she who leaps into the void of fear, of rejection, of exposure, of denunciation. Brave, brave, to love in such a world. The birdcatcher bows her head and nuzzles deeper, as if to hold her to the end of time. For there are no words for this. Tears, tears, of happiness, of sorrow, of the long journey of the years, of exile, of plague, of famine, the fever-pain and the arrow’s mark. This to a path to the house in the wood, this bed, this clasp, for all that love can and cannot say.

“Carol,” she whispers, for the world is in song.


	3. Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something short, hopefully sweet. It's been a brutal winter but I promise it will pass. Keep well, keep safe.

Sweet, let there be spring, the budding boughs, tendrils that stretch, oh tender hopes, the fronds unfurl, as yet unfulfilled in this promise of _more_. For there she strides, a brazen step from the meadow, the glint on the axe loop - field, oh field, the trace of green against the winter dun, and she, how she holds the essence of beauty, distilled, rough hands and torn cambric, she, the essence of every good thing.  
  
Your birdcatcher.  
  
Your heart, with wings, will soar.

Step, quick, quick, for it has been forty days, she in the wood, and you in the Abbey, this cruel and cautious quarantine. _Necessity,_ you remind yourself, _Ananke_. Days and days of vinegar and rose water, how your hands will crack despite the fragrant oils. _Oh, vanity, in the midst of horror._ You have tended to the sick in these clouded days with the consolation that _she is safe, she is safe_ in the house in the wood. For this bitter winter had come with the flare of plague, the red cough, the purple and black buboes, swollen. It was from the Abbey and Apothecary's prescription that they close the ferry, brace the gates, and all must wear the barbe. Eight years since the Black Death, the Scourge, but the lessons have been learned. Miasma. Offerings on the plague stone. And there must be no gatherings. In this first upheaval, the Regnant's sleight of hand: Yehudah, the physician, would make his calls but the families in the Quarter were slipped away to the Garrison. Under the aegis of the Queen's seal, they are safe, safe, for the lessons of Carcassone, of Strasbourg will never be forgotten. The birdcatcher, yes, she would hunt for the table of the Commons, but as a woman, alone in the wood ( _ah, the whispers_ ), she must cast the eyes of superstition elsewhere, for in the madness of scapegoating, she would be an easy mark. The Queen has planned for this, for she knows that in time of crisis, they must heed the many ills of the mind as well as of the body.  
  
Yet spring....  
  
Oh, what long, lonely days these have been!  
  
But mark, how her birdcatcher stands, hand loose on the belt, the brace of fowl slung over her shoulder. How she walks, the step, ever closer, and there, she sees you _brilliant eyes_ how her footfalls carry light, her smile _to sip, as wine_ to banish pain, the shadow of these dark days! She runs, that skip of joy, faster, faster, that heart bursting thread to thread, your tether, she has pulled you here, outside of yourself and boundless, to her, her, her. And it is she who expands, who gifts you, beyond and beyond - this wood, this world, this universe - she is your hearthstone, heaven's wonder -  
  
she is yours  
  
A kiss, rough taken, in desperate need, how the youth of her bolts, the lust of her, in gentle greed, her hands grasping, small as she is, she will lift you, in love, in laughter, to the bed, to the bed, the eager slip of tongue, and you, a clumsy bite on her shoulder. Oh, let her bluster, the unfallen sheen of tears _forty endless days!_ the nip and goad, desire that clamours on desire, fumble off the kirtle, the sing of skin, tickle belly and shiver, she cups, her lips take in you  
  
oh, you melt  
  
her mouth, holding nipple  
  
yes, the wonder of it  
  
for how can this be so, you, beyond in years, this treasure in your hands, unworthy to hold this beauty, the twist of her, soft and yielding, the leap of her in you, this touch. How new, how new, as if the years peel away, her eyes, they widen, this delight, lips parted, as if for the first time....  
  
This, a new beginning.  
  
For she takes you, the wonder of it, her hands parting thighs, her breath quickens, to see you, to smell you, to taste....  
  
to draw down the groan, the shudder bliss, the wanton rock of hips  
  
to feast  
  
_my love_

  


Later, you will have your fill, to pin her to the feathered bed, to make a song out of her pleasure, but now she rests, her head on your belly. Your hand strokes back her hair, chestnut strands. She is here, against all follies of the world, the unspoken terrors, and your heart, so full. To lie, in this bed, in the wood. A kiss, the only prayer you will truly believe, the only faith of gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: the barbe is a mask used during the Middle Ages. This knowledge is not new. Carcassone and Strasbourg had notoriously horrific pogroms against the Jews during the Black Death.
> 
> I do have a question: do those of you who bookmark the Carol of the Woods series - do you get notifications? How does that work?


End file.
